La Casa Azul

August 10th
Having just finished my second clove and glass of wine, and watching a massive downpour from a misty few feet away, I marvel that I am getting paid for this experience. Its laughably privileged and deliciously hedonistic. Megan would be proud, I am beginning to love storms. I read Lida’s book on DF (interesting, but profoundly biased), and listen to Lila Downs, a great singer my friend Masa lent me over delicious lunch with his well-travelled father. Today I went to Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera’s blue house. I feel a remarkable affinity to her boldness, style and colors. If we played the game of what dead person would you want to sleep with, she would win.
The museum had less of her actual art that I would have liked, but I was shocked by a sketch she had done of an eye with a clock whirling around within it. I have doodled that exact same image, carved it into clay. It makes me doubt my own originality, and also appreciate universal symbols. My art teacher in high school advised against the often blatant and redundant symmetry in my own paintings, and while looking back, tho they aren’t so hot, I think the advise is still useless. What’s the point in making art obscure, when the viewer normally want only to identify with what they are seeing and to feel themselves worthy of art.
The sky is turning a lovely celeste and lavender post-storm. I hope my landlord’s got their new (minuscule!) kittens inside. They are a good/bad influence on me, inspiring day-dreams with their easy love, globalized children, cigarettes, drinks, and falling-off jeans. Their tanned and relaxed presence is refreshing, as are these new furry members of the household. I lick nutella off a spoon, and half-assedly repent my light buzz, as finishing my transcription now seems unlikely.
Jess and I talked about the “no-lugar” our profesora dwelled upon. The limbo zones such as airports, or neighborhoods like Condesa or La Roma, which could be any Europeanized city. These places are good to visit, entertaining to pass by, but ultimately I am relieved I ended up in this humble neighborhood, whose sidewalks are smeared by dog shit and bird seed that the elderly leave out for their paloma friends.
The neighbors have turned on their lights, and their fake stained glass patterns glow warmly. Making me think of a future home where I want to tissue paper designs over the windows. I dream of the door of this house as I am meditatively walk to the Metro. I will paint the panes with a blue sky, and a gold abstract sun in the right corner. I will outline the pains and the door frame with a bold red. Invite people over for relaxed dinner parties where the wine will flow and someone will pick up a guitar and play the Beatles at request. And we will sing. And “we” will be a community, and also there will be a love of mine, who catches my eye as we enjoy our friends, and raises one eyebrow, to reminisce over the hurried fuck on the stairway before everyone arrived; so we smelled vaguely of sex or wax when we shook the guest’s hands and which made me more flushed and pretty than make-up alone could engineer.